


Drop

by Sholio



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Community: hc_bingo, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-28
Updated: 2014-07-28
Packaged: 2018-02-10 17:50:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2034363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sholio/pseuds/Sholio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Missing scene for <i>The First Avenger.</i> After the train, Steve goes on. For the h/c bingo square "exhaustion".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drop

**Author's Note:**

> Since I finally have time to write, I decided to write something light and fun off my h/c bingo card, and instead I wrote a thousand words of PURE MISERY. (Oops.) Loosely inspired by [this lovely but sad fanart](http://pain-art.tumblr.com/post/84730893427/grief-references-from).

After the train, Steve holds it together pretty well. Doesn't have a choice, really. They're behind enemy lines, at the mercy of the weather if the Germans or Hydra don't get them, and they have a prisoner whose mild exterior hides a frighteningly sharp brain and the morals of a rabid weasel.

So yeah, there's hardly a moment when Steve isn't fielding questions, poring over maps, trying to get his people and the prisoner they risked everything for (lost everything for) back to friendly territory. Normally when things are this tense he catches catnaps wherever he can, taking advantage of a lifelong talent for falling asleep instantly under almost any circumstances. Bucky, a lifelong insomniac, likes to poke fun at him for it, the kind of teasing that might have a slight edge of jealousy underneath, which is why Steve's in the habit of jumping on every opportunity to catch a little shut-eye not only for his own sake but for Bucky's as well. He'll prowl around the camp 'til he finds wherever Bucky has hidden himself away (up a tree with a rifle, most likely) and drag him off to a quiet place in one of the jeeps or next to the fire. Bucky will complain that he's not tired (his blue-shadowed eyes say it's a lie) until Steve makes him roll up in a blanket. Steve knows Bucky doesn't sleep every time, but _he_ sleeps better with Bucky pressed against his back, and it's better than knowing his friend is sitting alone in the dark with nightmares crawling behind his eyes.

He can't put Bucky in past tense. He _can't._ And the other thing he can't do, for the first time in his life, is fall asleep. He starts to drowse and then jerks awake to a scream ringing in his ears. His back is cold without Bucky's warmth against it. _He's_ cold, cold as he used to be when he was little 90-pound Steve, back in the days when he could never seem to get warm in the winter.

Except back then, he could always count on summer coming, if he made it that far. But this time there's no blue sky waiting for him.

The sun has gone out of the world.

 

***

 

Steve's running on close to three days of no sleep by the time they get back to camp. He goes through the debrief in a haze. Time skips, starts and stops. 

He's still freezing.

He half notices the Commandos answering most of the questions directed at him, can't figure out if it angers him more than he appreciates it. It's not the Commandos, though, but Colonel Phillips who makes him stand up at last and sends him out of the command tent with a warm hand pressed to his shoulder. "Get some sleep, son," he says.

If only.

He knows he needs to eat, but he isn't hungry, another thing that hasn't really been a problem since getting Erskine's treatment. Maybe that's part of why he's so cold. But he can't fit his mind into the idea of going to the mess, facing all those people. He just wants to stumble somewhere private and ... and ...

... and he doesn't _know,_ that's where it all falls apart. He can't see the light at the end of this long dark tunnel. Coming to terms with Bucky's --

\-- _death_ \--

\-- with Bucky being gone isn't an option, he _can't_ , won't. And so he doesn't know what he needs to go off alone to do. Pull himself together, maybe.

People die in war.

But not Bucky. Bucky _can't._

An aide shows him to what turns out to be the same wall tent he and Bucky shared for three weeks before they shipped out for the mountains. It's evident that someone else has been staying here, equally evident that they've been cleared out in a hurry. His things are still here -- spare uniforms, books and so forth, all neatly packed away just like he left them.

And so are Bucky's.

He hadn't thought -- of course someone's going to have to do something about that. Ship them home to his sisters, probably.

.... Bucky's sisters. He doesn't know how he's going to tell them, and then he realizes that he won't have to. The military will take care of it. Those letters of condolence that Colonel Phillips was writing for the men in the 107th, all those months ago -- 

_Guess you should have saved the letter for James Buchanan Barnes after all, sir._

And that, that's what does it. He sits down on his cot like his legs have been cut out from under him. With shaking hands he opens the chest beside the cot that used to be Bucky's and picks up the top item, which turns out to be the jacket of Bucky's dress uniform. Steve knows it's meaningless, _knows_ it, but he touches his face to it anyway. The fabric rustles against his cheek. It's stupid to think that it smells like Bucky. And yet it almost seems like he can --

He tightens a fist in the fabric, presses it to his forehead, burying his face like he can make the world go away.

He doesn't cry. This is, in its way, a grief too deep for tears. There's just a clawing ache in his throat, savage and hard, curling around his chest and pressing him dry.

Still clutching the jacket, he lies down. Curls around it. 

"Please," he whispers.

It's not a prayer, not quite. If it were, he doesn't know what he's praying for. To go back, maybe. To wake and find that it's all been a dream -- not just the train, but the whole damn war. To be little Steve from Brooklyn again, trapped in a body that always hurts him. He'd go back in a minute. Nothing -- nothing -- _nothing_ is worth this.

He doesn't cry, but he shakes. Shakes like he'll fly apart, like only his grip on Bucky's jacket holds him together.

After a while he pulls the scratchy wool blanket over him. It doesn't help -- he's still cold -- but he squirms around until he's halfway comfortable, with the balled-up jacket against his chest. He curls tighter, until he can bury his face in it again. Like being a child and pulling the covers over his head, hiding from monsters that wait in the dark.

The world is full of monsters and a thin layer of fabric won't stop their teeth any more than it can stop a bullet. Or a fatal fall.

But the jacket, unlike the blanket, maybe feels a little bit warm, and he closes his eyes and breathes what is almost but not quite Bucky's scent (he's already forgetting it) and for a little while, armored against the dark and cold, he sleeps.

**Author's Note:**

> I can also be found [on tumblr](http://laylainalaska.tumblr.com) (with a fic announcement blog at [sholiofic](http://sholiofic.tumblr.com)). Feel free to drop by!


End file.
